Into the Woods Read online

  He snarls at the memory – at the unfairness of the cards that Fate had dealt him not so long ago. As he’d dug around for a new story, Rowan had been thrown another seemingly golden opportunity when a production company in Manchester approached him to present the pilot episode of a new true crime series on a digital channel. Rowan had given the role his all, convinced this was going to be a permanent gig and a truly life-altering moment. Three months after they finished shooting, Rowan was replaced by a former soap actress. She was going to present, to film the links, to be credited as “star”. Rowan was reduced to a “talking head”, a named onlooker offering a journalist’s perspective, filmed in front of a wall of old books.

  Rowan had told them to shove it. None of his old contacts took him back. Nobody wanted to give meagre freelance budgets to somebody who had left on a megabucks publishing deal. And his book publishers were starting to ask for updates. For some pages or an outline at least. If he failed to deliver a manuscript before December 31, he would be in breach of contract. He would have to give a great chunk of money back. And he didn’t have the money anymore. He’d drunk it and smoked it and snorted it benevolently from bellies both fleshy and taut. He’d had a wonderful time. Now it was gone. He found himself having to do late-night subbing shifts at right-wing tabloids; missing from his girlfriend’s London flat for such long periods that she presumed they’d broken up. In her distress, she’d turned to a handsome gym bunny called Donnie for emotional support.

  Then he’d been hurt. Hurt so badly that the only place to go was home.

  Home, he considers. It’s an odd word this little green-brown corner of the Lake District. His upbringing saw to it he never put down roots. Home was caravan parks and halting sites; a seemingly endless succession of woodland enclosures where he and mum and Serendipity cosied up inside the old American school bus that rocked with each lash of the wind. He grew up itinerant, forever on the move; both benefactor and victim of a Bohemian mother and a series of impermanent dads. For a while, school was also a young offenders’ institute. The foster homes, care homes, and finally free. Home, now, is wherever his sister is and this moody coastal valley is where she has chosen to put down roots.

  He stretches, elongating his hands. Emits a simian screech as the wounds threaten to open like flowers.

  ‘You stupid sod,’ he mutters, seething. ‘Stop forgetting!’

  Rowan is under doctor’s orders to keep his skin covered. The wounds upon his palms have twice become infected. For a time he seemed to be more blisters than flesh: mottled strips of epidermis hanging from his palm like popped bubblegum; pus and pain in every line and whorl. Two weeks ago he was admitted to A&E – the doctors concerned he was developing sepsis and pumping him so full of antibiotics that his blood could have healed the sick. He ran a fever that turned his skin a shade of green; steam rising from his forehead while shivering so violently that the nurses feared he would break his teeth. There was talk of an induced coma. His sister was called.

  Rowan spent five whole days in hospital before boredom and the absence of a bar persuaded him he would be best served by discharging himself. He didn’t get very far. The pain in his hands reached all the way up to his shoulders. He couldn’t steer his car or change gear without weeping. They found him in the car park, trying to reverse out of a parking space using his elbows.

  His sister had made the decision for him. He was coming to stay with her. There would be no arguments. She would give him space. She’d just had the byre done up and although it was pretty basic and the toilet was outdoors, it would be perfect for his convalescence. He could take it easy. He could write, or at the very least he could dictate into a recording device. He could walk on the fells or skim stones, however inexpertly, on the silver-grey surface of the mountain tarns. He could meet new people, drink real ales and decide what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He could get to know his niece, Snowdrop. They would take care of him.

  Rowan still feels as though they took advantage of a sick man.

  He looks down as his feet nudge a silvery metal mug, resting against the doorstep. There’s a wildflower wilting on the sealed lid. Rowan grins. Bends down and picks it up with his right hand; his bandaged fingers and thumb looking like a sock puppet fastening onto prey. He sips strong, black coffee, and gives a little salute to the air.

  ‘Thanks, Snowdrop,’ he mutters. He glances around, hoping his young niece may also have gone to the trouble of bringing him a bacon sandwich, three Marlboro Red and a strip of Ibuprofen. Wrinkles his nose, unimpressed with the youth of today.

  He sits on the front step, a little cold, a little feverish, and still a bit drunk. The bird starts singing again. He glances back inside, through the door into the tiny space he is currently under instructions to think of as “home”. He’s proud of his sister for how hard she’s worked to spin straw into gold. The byre was waist deep in cow dung when she bought it. The bloke who did the renovations spent the first three days shovelling his way down to floor level. Even then he had a hellish job with the drainage and foundations. There are old mine workings honeycombing the ground beneath this part of the valley. Serendipity had to beg two more budget increases from her wife before the byre could be declared fit for human habitation.

  There’s a different kind of crap to wade through now: imitation Welsh dressers, cut little landscapes in wonky frames; rag rugs and wicker baskets piled with logs and pine cones. It’s homely but too twee for Rowan’s tastes. The absence of hot water or a shower doesn’t help. He doesn’t mind visiting the outhouse now and again but he’s encouraged his hosts to think again before advertising a holiday cottage that expects its occupants to wash their nether regions in the downstairs sink. Rowan is no stranger to roughing it, but he fancies that the fell walkers who flock to this part of the Lake District may expect slightly more for their 600 quid each week.

  Rowan’s descent into the warm milk of self-pity is disturbed by a sudden sound at his garden gate. He looks up to see a bundle of effervescence and sunshine.

  ‘Hiya,’ comes a voice, bright as ice. ‘Uncle Rowan! Did you get it? Was it still hot? Is it strong enough? Uncle Rowan! Namaste!’

  Rowan pulls himself up and turns his back. Alters his position so he is leaning with his forehead against the doorframe, his back to the front gate. Hears plastic soles striking stone and the shush of disturbed grass as she runs up the path.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asks Snowdrop, a giggle in her voice.

  ‘I’m getting paid to hold this building up,’ says Rowan, without turning around. ‘A tenner a day. The lunch breaks are a bit fraught with peril but a job’s a job. I can’t be picky.’

  He enjoys her laughter. Turns back, pulling a face that suggests he has been pressing his features too hard into the brick. She laughs again. ‘You’re so weird,’ she snorts. ‘Mum said you would be weird but you’re like, way out there.’

  ‘Says you,’ protests Rowan, pretending to be outraged. ‘You’re the one dressed like a pantomime cow.’

  She grins, her face naturally charming. She’s twelve years old. She has a pale, lightly freckled appearance, red lips and the same blue eyes as her mum, Rowan’s older sister. Two spots of perfect red colour her cheeks. Her hair is a shimmering mass of black and hangs to her shoulders in a jumble of ringlets. Some of the twists in her hair are intentional – pretty curls made last night with twists of paper and elastic bands. The others are more naturally occurring tangles; a mess of knots and snarls, twisting over and under one another like ivy. There is mud on her bare knees and up the side of her wellingtons. Her bare hands look cold. There is a bruise on her left thumbnail and the last flakes of purply nail varnish on the seashell-coloured cuticles at the end of her long, pale fingers. She smells of the outdoors; of cake baked in a steam-filled kitchen; damp clothes and chunky, old-fashioned soap. She has the air of a Disney princess who has spent a month living rough: a Snow White not above barbecuing her woodland helpers.

  ‘You shoul
d be wearing red,’ says Rowan, looking her up and down.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘And you should be skipping.’

  The girl frowns, unsure. She really wants to understand. ‘I don’t…’

  ‘Red Riding Hood,’ explains Rowan, shaking his head in mock disappointment. ‘Honestly, you’re supposed to be a writer. Now I know who picked the bloody awful name. Bilberry Bloody Byre…’

  Rowan has already made his feelings clear about what he refers to as “the saccharine vileness” of the cottage’s new sobriquet. It was chosen by Serendipity, his sister. Given her own moniker, Rowan believes she should understand the importance of getting a name right. Their mother has a fifty per cent success rate. Rowan suits his name. Serendipity, forever anxious, forever screwing herself into the ground with responsibilities, with her lost paperwork and sob stories, has always struck her younger brother as more of a Carol or a Mavis. Bilberry Byre is her choice. It’s a thoroughly incongruous affectation, deliberately chosen to suggest a certain cosiness – as if the remoteness of the location and severity of the weather could be somehow camouflaged by the cunning use of alliteration and pastoral imagery.

  ‘I lit the fire myself today,’ says Rowan, with a slight air of pride. ‘My shirt caught fire, but it wasn’t one of my good ones.’

  ‘I can smell it.’ Snowdrop sniffs. ‘Did you smoke yourself out? I told you to clear the grating before you put the kindling on. Your eyes look a bit pink. Did you take the ash out? Mum gets cross if you don’t. And do you need more firelighters? I brought some more anyway. They’re under the croissants. That’s okay isn’t it? Are they poisonous? Will it make the croissants taste funny? Where does the word “croissant” come from, Uncle Rowan? There’s a girl at school says her mum calls them crab-rolls. She says they look like them. They don’t, do they? You won’t die from eating them, will you? I’ve got a book on chemicals…’

  Rowan smiles and puts his covered hands to his ears. ‘Dippy, you’re going to make my head explode.’

  Snowdrop peers past him through the open door. It’s smoky inside the cottage; the grey air peppered with the greasy scents of bacon grease and spilled red wine. Her eyes shoot to the stain on the rag rug in front of the open fire. Red wine and burned cloth. A small, rather pitiful flame attempts to devour a large stack of A4 pages and a sheaf of newspapers. The fire gives off a pitiful amount of light and makes the cottage feel gloomy, turning the windows into mirrors. The walls seem closer today than when the sun shines. The creak of the gate sounds more threatening, like violin strings played with a saw.

  Snowdrop wipes her feet on the step and slides into the room like sunlight. She crosses to the far wall and flicks on a standard lamp with a gaudy, seventies-style shade. Yellow light fills the poky room; picks out the wooden ceiling joists, the soft flower-patterned wallpaper, the random smattering of watercolour landscapes and Victorian school photographs in their mismatched frames. A pile of books has toppled over on the little table, knocking dirty glasses and crumb-covered plates onto the flagged floor.

  ‘Nothing we can’t sort out,’ says Snowdrop, brimming with optimism. She looks at her uncle, slouched disconsolately in the doorway, and puts her head on one side as if talking to a younger child. ‘You’re doing so well. You’ve had no practice at this. Who could cope with having both hands out of action, eh? Especially when everything they’re good at involves being pretty nifty with their fingers.’

  Rowan chews his lip. ‘That sounded vaguely encouraging,’ he says, moodily. ‘Have you heard somebody else say that?’

  Snowdrop busies herself arranging papers, muttering something about an overhead conversation between her two mums. ‘Typing, drinking, fighting – that’s what Jo said. Said something about it being like Usain Bolt losing use of his feet…’

  ‘That’s a clever line,’ he says, begrudgingly.

  ‘And no matter what they say, I know you’re working hard here. Just because you won’t tell anybody your idea for book two, it doesn’t mean you haven’t got one. I mean, your deadline’s Christmas, isn’t it, so you’d be pretty daft to not even have a title by this stage!’

  He listens to her happy life. Manages a smile. ‘Yeah,’ he grumbles. ‘That would be the work of a fucking idiot.’

  The voice, thoroughly disappointed: Yes, my son.

  2

  Silver Birch Academy, Wasdale Valley

  Monday, September 15, 1986

  11.41am

  Violet peers up at the bruised sky – the low clouds pressing down upon the valley like a boot heel. She tells herself the specks of purple and yellow are sunflowers and crocuses.

  She looks across the stark, still surface of Wast Water. Makes out the shape of the school, emerging from the gloom like an iceberg. Pictures the big wooden door. Imagines her way inside it: to a place of high ceilings, bookcases, triple-tiered bunk beds and big comfy sofas.

  Violet is beginning to regret slipping away from the rest of her party and taking herself off to this isolated spot. According to Daddy, Violet makes lots of bad decisions. Violet is a “difficult child”. A “problem child”. A “naughty girl”. Violet is “Trouble with a capital T”. Nor, apparently, is she still pretty enough to charm her way out of trouble. Apparently, she has tried it on one too many times. Apparently, it’s time to make big changes before she gets too far down a road from which she won’t be able to come back.

  Violet has recently turned ten. It’s clear to her that her best days are well and truly behind her.

  Violet hopes that Daddy won’t be cross at her for going off on her own. She also hopes that he’ll be furious. Apparently, she’s a Contrary Mary. When she’s in charge, she intends to take that stupid word out of the dictionary. Apparently, such grandiose claims are half her problem.

  Daddy is a busy man. According to Mummy, he’s “well-to-do”. He’s from “old money”. He makes their lives easier and it’s the least they can all bloody do to act grateful and give him a moment’s peace, for God’s sake…

  This school is Mum’s choice. If Daddy had his way she’d be attending one of the boaters-and-knickerbockers places down in the stockbroker belt. But Mum likes Silver Birch and, eventually, Mum tends to get her own way. Daddy’s done a lot of sighing and snorting, letting out little breaths of contempt each time the head teacher has spoken about the school’s holistic approach to “whole child” education. He’d seemed almost evangelical as he spoke of his pride in helping a whole generation of children how to become “citizens of the world” and to appreciate their “inner lives”.

  ‘Hippy claptrap,’ muttered Daddy, as if he hadn’t already read the brochure cover to cover.

  ‘…eventually everybody will be taught this way, and even the word “taught” is something I have issue with. This is of course our flagship school and two further academies are on the verge of opening in the next eighteen months. Obviously we live in a capitalist world and as such we have to make sure we balance the books but it’s important you share our vision that all funds go straight back into education. We’re trying to create a family here – that’s why we keep the numbers small. For those pupils lucky enough to be boarding with us it’s a real home-from-home mentality. I actually feel very jealous – this is going to be the start of a wonderful chapter in your children’s lives…’

  Violet had stopped listening around the time Mr Tunstall had told them that maths was interchangeable on the curriculum with art, drama, homeopathy or modern philosophy. At her last school she was deemed an exceptional student – advanced in all aspects of schooling and extremely literate for somebody who turns eleven on their next birthday. Where she struggles is socially. She can be a boisterous girl. She loses her temper; gets easily upset. When she was small she used to pull her hair until it came out. Mum says she has too many feelings inside her – that she’s “highly strung” and “neurotic” and “trying to find her path”; Daddy calls her a bloody nuisance.

  Silver Birch is supposed to be a fresh start.
They keep promising her things will be different here. They tell her she’ll find peace. She doesn’t believe them. They don’t understand that she’s two people. She’s Violet Sheehan. She’s clever and sweet and caring and artistic. She’s also Violet’s shadow. Those who have witnessed her temper say it is like watching a fight between hissing cats. She is all claws and spit and venom.

  ‘Oh, sorry… I’ll go… I didn’t see you…’

  Violet turns. The girl who emerges from the woods matches her intonation perfectly. She’s a fragile little thing. Frizzy brown hair and glasses speckled with raindrops. She’s probably the same age as Violet but looks younger. Her clothes look considerably older: a big Salvation Army duffel coat is fastened up to the top above a knee-length skirt with shiny wellington boots. She holds herself close: elbows tucked in, like a roosting bird. She makes Violet think of premature kittens – the litter last spring – just bones and patchy fur, dead in a cardboard box. Daddy had let her keep one overnight, the better to help her say goodbye. She’d held it until it went stiff. Even then she’d continued to try and manipulate the limbs; to open its closed eyes and to push her finger into the squeezed-shut mouth, the pad of her finger searching for the tiny sharp points of teeth.

  ‘I’m Violet,’ she says, introducing herself in a loud, proud voice, the way Daddy has told her to. She puts out a hand for the frail girl to shake but quickly withdraws it, feeling silly. Her own hands are powerful – to take this girl’s paw in hers would feel like closing a fist around a handful of crisps.

  ‘Are you with the tour?’ asks the girl, and Violet notices how wide her eyes are, like freshly cracked eggs on a dainty side plate. ‘Are you coming here? You should, you really should. I started last term and it’s not like other schools.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’ Violet smiles, and the girl seems delighted by this small act of fellowship.

  ‘I’m Catherine,’ she says, though she doesn’t seem entirely sure about the truth of the statement. ‘My Daddy’s the vicar in Seascale so I don’t board. He’s very happy with how I’m getting on here. What about you? Where are you coming from?’